


After the altar

by Shotgun_Cake



Series: We move like the sea [4]
Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: -Ish, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Berlermo WEDDING NIGHT, Berlermo Wedding, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa Lives, But make it spicy, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Married Sex, More Wedding Content, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Smut, Switching, THERE IS PLOT, here's the gist of it: today they got married and now they're finally alone, it just happens to be in a whole other fic, not having read the plot will not affect your reading comprehension of this specific story, or more specifically, whatever will happen I wonder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:47:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25693036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shotgun_Cake/pseuds/Shotgun_Cake
Summary: “Let's consummate this union, shall we?”~~~OR: exactly what it sounds like.Part of the“Something stolen, something blue”Berlermo Wedding Universe.But can also be read as a PWP. That’s your call.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Palermo | Martín Berrote, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Series: We move like the sea [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1807702
Comments: 22
Kudos: 105





	After the altar

Dancing with Martín Berrote in their honeymoon suite, as their wedding day comes to an end, is probably the closest Andrés has ever been to a religious experience. 

A romantic and intimate moment, obviously, but something else too. Something transcendental. It’s this bond they have, a bond Andrés has never shared with anyone before, not even close. Sometimes he isn’t sure to understand it completely. It feels like he and Martín are of one mind. Of one body.

And it being their wedding night, Andrés’s thoughts are definitely taking him somewhere else, now. Atop a precipice, ready to fall. He’s acutely aware of Martín's body against his, as they sway leisurely across the palace floors. He wants to hold him even closer, but he doesn’t. Not yet. 

The need to feel everything about Martín is overwhelming. There is this urge to have him, right then and there. Andrés cannot escape it. Not that he would want to. He's simply drawing it out. Savoring it, like a fine bottle of wine locked away for special occasions, knowing full well that his patience will be rewarded. The flavor only deepens as he waits, and when Andrés eventually succumbs, he’ll be ready for a taste of heaven on his tongue. 

At this very moment, Andrés is doing the exact same thing.

Today, he took Martín to be his husband. 

And tonight, he's going to _take him_. Period. 

But before that, he’s making him wait for it. For added flavor. 

It takes longer than Andrés expected for Martín to catch on. But he eventually does. That man knows him, after all.

“Andrés?”, Martín asks against his neck, still swaying in his arms. “Are we going to dance all night?”

Andrés laughs against his hair. No, definitely not. But he feels like playing coy.

“You agreed to take over as my tango teacher, didn't you? Perhaps I should request my first lesson.”

“What, you mean _right now?”,_ Martín asks, pulling away slightly to look at his face. 

“Unless you have anything better to suggest?”

Martín smiles knowingly. He pretends to ponder over the question.

“Let me think… What else could I want to be doing on my wedding night?”

“Tango is still on the table”, Andrés teases, before pulling the move he's been thinking about for a few minutes now.

Focusing entirely on the movements of his legs, Andrés trips Martín up and catches him mid-air, dangerously close to the floor. A dip, just like he did earlier today. Except this time, when he tightens his arms around Martín's waist and carries his body over his thigh, Andrés captures his lips as well. 

Just like he wanted to, during their first dance. He’s been wanting this all day long, really. And definitely right now. 

Andrés carefully pulls him back up from the tango dip, but their lips never part. Martín kisses him back furiously, his arms grabbing at his shoulders and pulling him close. Andrés smiles against his lips. So eager already. Not that he expected any less from him. 

“Take it off”, Martín hisses as he painstakingly pulls his lips away from Andrés.

“Take what off?”

“Your suit. Everything. Now! I need to see _my husband.”_

Andrés laughs, finding his impatience sweeter than it has any right to be, but dutifully complies. He starts undoing his own shirt buttons while Martín works on his bowtie. The line of his brow - frowning, focused - is fascinating. He looks like a man on a mission. And his mission is getting them both naked as fast as he possibly can. 

Who is Andrés to stand in the way of such a noble task? 

When he finds himself shirtless, he tries to undress Martín as well. But the wicked little thing escapes his grasp and drops to his knees, his hurried fingers unfastening Andrés's pants. He's been hard for a little while already, and he lets out a relieved sigh when a warm hand palms him through his boxers. 

Martín licks his lips in anticipation and Andrés has to grab his wrist before he can lower his underwear. 

“Martín, no-”

“No?”

He looks up at him, all wide eyes and raw desire. Oh, how Andrés wants this. Needs this. But he can't be rushing things tonight.

“Not like that. And not on the floor. You'll damage your suit, for a start.”

He pulls at Martín’s arm and drags him back up. Once he’s returned to a standing position, Andrés cups his face with both hands and looks at him, dead serious.

“You made a vow, Martín. To have and to hold. I expect you to honor every aspect of it. _Properly._ Take me to bed, husband.”

And he does. With a bright smile and a dark look in his eyes, he takes Andrés's hand and leads him to the massive bed. He even pushes Andrés until he complies and lies on his back. Martín immediately drapes himself all over his body and resumes kissing him. 

So he’s going for bossy and presumptuous, tonight, then. 

Andrés lets him believe he's going to be docile for about five seconds, before he flips him over and straddles his lap. He enjoys the feeling of pinning Martín to the mattress with his hips, and finally sets out to undress him. 

He starts with his neck, kissing the skin as he unwraps him from his very high end - very slow to take off - wedding suit. Martín had taken his jacket off already, so Andrés unbuttons his shirt and starts trailing kisses down his chest.

“I can't believe you didn’t let me suck you off”, Martín whines, a sigh more than a real complaint. 

“Patience, _cariño…”_

Andrés smiles against his skin and starts nibbling at a nipple, drawing more sighs and moans out of him.

In all the years he’s been with Martín, he's rarely refused him _that_. And he does long for his talented lips around his cock, of course. They both do. He knows how much Martín loves taking him into his mouth, always grateful for it. Almost like Andrés is doing him a favor by allowing him to do this. It’s insane. But tonight, there are more pressing matters than Andrés's selfish pleasure. Tonight, Martín is getting worshiped. Like he deserves to be.

He sucks on his other nipple while undoing Martín's pants, dragging them down carefully. Without granting him any friction.

“Andrés-”

He's so hard already. Or maybe he’s been hard for a while too. Martín thrusts his hips upwards with a needy sound, and Andrés takes his hands and mouth off of him immediately. He steps away, kneeling on the bed, and sets out to finish undressing. Martín can't do anything but stare at him in wonder. 

When Andrés is fully naked, he resumes his earlier task, and drags down Martín's pants and underwear, smiling as he finds his cock leaking already. 

Martín looks up at him. Waiting. Offered. It’s Andrés’s turn to stare.

“My husband, what a vision you are…”

He leans in to lick a long, slow trail up the length of his member, base to head, and loosely wraps his lips around him, tasting precome on his tongue. The scent is strong, enticing.

“Andrés, don't-”, Martín begs in a broken voice. 

Andrés lets his cock fall back heavily against his stomach. It makes a faint slapping sound.

“Really? No foreplay tonight?”

Martín just laughs at him, shaking his head.

“Are you kidding me? You see that?”, he asks, waving his left hand. Showcasing the ring. “Andrés, you remember what _today_ is, right? Here's your fucking foreplay!”

Andrés laughs as well and moves to lie above Martín's body, meeting his lips again. He particularly likes the fact Martín can taste himself on his tongue. As he kisses him, his hand wanders under the pillow where Martín's head rests, finding the bottle of lubricant he hid there earlier. A successful wedding night is an art, for which the artist must come equipped with his own painting supplies. And tonight, he does intend to turn his quivering husband into a sensual masterpiece. A spectacle of sights and sounds.

Without ending the kiss, he coats his fingers in lube and moves his hand down Martín's body. He traces a slick, taunting finger along his member before finding his entrance.

Andrés loves kissing Martín when he fingers him. He can always feel his reactions on his lips. The stretch of that first penetration makes him tense and lick and bite into his mouth. Andrés absorbs the noises of his pleasure and slowly begins moving his finger. 

Martín immediately starts rocking his hips, trying and failing to meet his shallow thrusts. Regretfully, Andrés ends the kiss to focus on his task.

“More...”

Andrés absolutely does not give him more. Just because he married him, doesn’t mean Martín can start giving the orders now.

“More, _please…”_

That’s better. 

Andrés inserts a second finger and Martín takes it, tensing and stretching around it. Letting out obscene moans.

Martín has always been so much more than a plaything to Andrés. But he is _also_ that. Amongst many other things. A soulmate. A partner in crime. From now on, a husband too. 

And right now, Andrés is very much enjoying how completely he gets to _play_ with him. Or simply, to play him. Like an instrument. One that he can artfully manipulate, drawing a melody of lust from Martín's parted lips. An ode to pleasure. An ode to him. But Andrés intends to do more than play with Martín, tonight. He's a generous husband, after all. He will give him what he wants. In good time. 

Martín is squirming on the bed, always greedy for more. Andrés lays his right hand flat across his chest and pushes him back onto the mattress, keeping him in place. 

Seeing him like that, entirely at his mercy. Andrés cannot help himself.

Martín shouts when he feels a third finger inside him.

“Oh my _god_ Andrés! Are you-?”

He smirks as he takes in his flushed, awestruck face. 

“Never been fingered by a married man before?”, Andrés observes.

He's been preparing him with his left hand for that exact purpose. Just to witness Martín's reaction, to watch the surprise on his face, the fever in his eyes, as he feels the metal of Andrés's wedding ring brush against his entrance at every thrust of his fingers.

Andrés's goal is to unravel him completely. And doing it with that hand is part of the overall plan. Not to mention how enthralled he is at the sight of his own fingers disappearing inside Martín, the dim lighting in their room reflecting beautifully on the gold of his ring.

When Martín starts whining in the way that he does when he’s just about to beg to be fucked, Andrés speeds up the assault of his fingers. 

Martín moans and arches his back. His head falls back heavily into the pillow. 

Then Andrés carefully withdraws his fingers and begins a trail of kisses along his thigh. He meets Martín's eyes, the both of them brimming with anticipation.

“Are you ready for your husband to fuck you?”

Suddenly, he sees something shift on Martín's face. 

And it's not the rush of desire he was expecting.

“How many times have you used that exact line, Andrés?”

Fuck. 

But it’s not like that. He has to know it’s not like that.

“Martín-”

“You know what? I changed my mind.”

Andrés backs away as though he'd been burned. He lets go of the thigh he was kissing and sits back on his heels, dumbfounded. 

This isn’t happening. 

Andrés will not let it happen.

“Do you want us to sleep in separate bedrooms after all, Martín? How very Victorian of you. Wasn’t last night lonely enough for your taste? It was for me. _Very lonely.”_

“No, listen”, Martín starts, sitting up to face him. “I’m not turned off, or anything. But I'm fully aware that you’ve had many wedding nights, Andrés.”

He’s too stern. Too serious.

“I did, yes”, Andrés eventually concedes. “And I barely remember those nights. They didn't leave much of a mark. They even blend together in my memory, at this point.”

“Exactly!”, Martín exclaims, as though Andrés just proved some sort of point. “Because you did the same thing _every single time._ You made it repetitive. You made it _boring.”_

Andrés wants to be offended, but he just stares at Martín. He doesn't seem exactly sad, or put off. But there's that frown again. Determination. Andrés wants to trace his lips all over his face until that frown is no more. 

Martín continues.

“I don’t want this to be just another wedding night, for you.”

“You know it won't”, Andrés insists, and he means it. “You’re not like them. You were never like any of them to me.”

“Oh, I know”, Martín replies, way too confident for the situation he's in. “You’ve told me many times that I’m special. That it’ll be different.”

“And you don’t believe me?”

“I do. I believe you. But I think it’s time you put your money where your mouth is.”

Martín is smiling now. Which is a relief. And doesn’t make any sense.

“My money?”, Andrés repeats, blinking in confusion.

Martín’s smile widens, and the glint in his eye should have worried Andrés more than it turned him on.

“You know what I think, Andrés? I think I’m going to fuck you tonight.”

Andrés stares at him in shock. No. He definitely wasn't expecting that. 

Still, almost in spite of himself, Andrés feels his cock twitch as he hears Martín's words. It's his tone. He said that with confidence, with finality. He said it and he meant it.

“Is that so?”, Andrés replies, amused. 

He wants to laugh. He wants to touch Martín again.

“Oh, sorry. Maybe I was a bit crass. Tonight, I’m _making love to my husband._ Is that how you prefer to be asked?”

Andrés lets his eyes slowly wander down Martín's body, landing on his cock. Thick and swollen. He always likes looking at it. Tasting it, _feeling_ it. 

Martín bites his lip when he catches him staring. He leans in and starts mouthing at Andrés's neck. 

Andrés groans and tilts his head back, granting him better access. 

Soon, he feels the warmth of Martín’s breath against his ear. 

“Think about it”, he taunts, the feather-light touch of his fingers tracing patterns across his back. “I bet you’ve never had a wedding night quite like that, have you?”

“Martín…”, he warns.

But his husband simply returns to mouthing and nuzzling at his neck, and Andrés lets him. 

While his mind is racing.

Andrés does enjoy letting Martín do this to him. On occasion. And he finds more pleasure in it than he ever thought he would. But that's all it is: he _lets him do it._ As a favor. A generous gift. Martín has _never_ asked for it. Not once. It's always Andrés's idea. Always on his terms. 

So it doesn't make any sense that he would ask for this. Tonight of all nights. 

Martín does know how to lead, how to take care of Andrés's pleasure. But that's not what he prefers. He can only ascend, he can only truly let go, when it's Andrés who takes care of him. He's meant to follow. He needs Andrés to guide him, to _decide_ for him. Always. 

But not tonight, apparently. 

And maybe Andrés likes him like that. Asking for what he wants.

It's a rush to have Martín wanting him this much, wanting to _own him_ in that way. It's important that Martín knows that he can. Or at least, that he can ask. Andrés keeps telling him to voice all of his desires. Well, he did. Andrés cannot fault him for trying. He cannot fault him for wanting him.

And- well, to put it simply, Andrés likes the act itself. The things Martín can do to his body, when he's allowed, the ways he makes Andrés burn up for his touch, the pleasure building from within. It's something else.

 _Martín_ is something else. 

Andrés can’t believe he’s considering it. 

And Martín can tell. His kisses along his neck are growing feverish, and Andrés chuckles when he feels a taunting hand run across his ass. A provocation.

That's enough of this.

Andrés grabs a fistful of Martín's hair and pulls his head away from his neck. Not hard. He's done way worse before. But he doesn't let him go, keeping his fingers in a tight grip around his hair, even after he has Martín where he wants him. 

Andrés needed that. He needed to look at Martín's face, to see something there. As expected, Martín doesn't flinch at the pain, doesn't even wince, really. He lets his eyes flutter shut and embraces the touch, rough as it may be. He trusts Andrés to take good care of him. He always does. 

But Andrés also notices the movement of Martín's Adam's apple as he meets his eyes again. Swallowing hard. Scanning his face, just as Andrés is reading Martín's. Not as self-assured as he's been pretending to be, then. But he's trying. Andrés loves that about him.

“What if that's not what I want?”, he asks instead.

It's not a real question. 

Andrés knows full well that he could just grab Martín right now and start pounding into him, if he so desires. He could shake him like a rag-doll and manhandle him. He could let his nails dig into his skin and leave bruises on his hips. And Martín would still be grateful for it. 

Andrés can do all of that. And he will.

“That's your choice”, Martín confirms. “It's always been your choice, Andrés. But I saw your face when I said I was going to fuck you. I think you want me to.”

And he does. Not just to appease Martín, even though that's part of it. The suggestion has been voiced, a thick and heavy notion, permeating the air between them. Now that it has been let out, it's not going anywhere. 

Andrés didn't expect he would, but he just might let Martín fuck him tonight. 

He doesn't care for this tone, though.

Andrés is still pulling his hair, and yet, there's somehow a cocky smile on his face.

“Get on your stomach for me?”, Martín adds. 

No, that cannot fly.

“Is that an _order_ from my husband? Do you think I'll let you boss me around like that?”

Martín blinks.

“May my beautiful husband whom I treasure lay on his stomach so I can eat his ass? Please?”

Andrés smiles at that. _Please._ Well, asked so nicely. It would be rude not to humor him, wouldn't it? 

“Maybe.”

He takes his sweet time to lie down comfortably on his stomach, groaning at the faint brush of the bed sheets against his dick. That has been tragically ignored, so far. 

The moment he gets into position, Martín's hands are on him, firm, spreading him, and he feels a warm tongue against his entrance. 

He lets out a choked sound, low in his throat. It’s always pleasurable in an almost surprising way. And it has been a while since the last time they did that. Andrés hopes he never gets used to that sensation.

Martín softens his grasp on Andrés's skin. He holds him open and dives face first into him with care. Almost with reverence. And he moans as he does, not shy about his enjoyment as he swirls his tongue against Andrés's most intimate part.

And it is something.

Yes. Andrés is happy with his decision.

Because that was _his_ decision. No matter how boisterous Martín is being, bringing up ideas like that. On their wedding night, no less. Who does he think he is?

 _His husband._ That's who. 

And the man who is fucking Andrés tonight, apparently.

Maybe today's events are the reason behind this rush in confidence. The reason for this attitude, that is simply unacceptable. And quite arousing. Andrés doesn't know for sure where Martín got this newfound bravado, but he likes that color on him. 

Still, he firmly intends to replace this smug tone in his voice with a litany of broken moans.

“You better prepare me properly before you even _think_ of fucking me”, Andrés reminds him.

As a reply, Martín slides his tongue past the ring of muscles, now fully licking _inside_ him, in that skillful way that has Andrés lightheaded and vocal. And grasping at the bed sheets. 

A muffled laugh vibrates against his sensitive skin, and a slicked finger slowly breaches him, while Martín keeps licking around his entrance.

Andrés relaxes around it, shamelessly rocking back his hips into Martín's face. He really knows how to press all of Andrés’s buttons, even for this. Which is absolutely baffling, considering how rarely Andrés’s indulges in this kind of pleasure. But frequency doesn’t matter. Martín has always been perfectly in tune with Andrés. He doesn’t just guess what he wants, what he needs. He _knows_. He always does. 

After a bit, there is a second finger inside him. He takes it in without too much difficulty, feeling his insides stretching faster than he thought. 

Naturally, he still makes a point of complaining.

“Careful”, he hisses. “Pace yourself, Martín. I'm not above throwing you out if I'm not pleased.”

“I know”, Martín answers before resuming what he was doing.

Andrés feels his insides clench, his body contorting with pleasure at the not-so-familiar pressure against his prostate. Delightful, relentless. It's almost too much.

“Martín-”

“I _know”_ , he repeats, and he does sound awfully pleased with himself. 

Andrés would find him insufferable, if he weren't busy arching his back and groaning into the pillow. 

Martín's tongue is no longer pleasuring him, his lover having moved on to mouthing at the sensitive skin of his inner thighs as he thrusts his fingers inside him. His other hand is rubbing circles around his hip, soothing Andrés, coaxing him. He doesn't need it, but he appreciates the gesture. 

Martín caresses his entrance with a third finger, not sliding it in yet. A silent question.

Finally, some fucking respect.

“Go on”, he allows, and grunts when the three fingers penetrate him and find his sensitive spot again. Almost immediately.

He wants to bite into the pillow to hide his groans. It's not shame, never. It's pride. Martín has been acting unusually smug, tonight. Presumptuous. He doesn't deserve the satisfaction of hearing Andrés's reactions.

“Are you ready for me Andrés? _Are you ready for your husband to fuck you?”_

The insolence. 

Andrés scoffs at Martín parroting his own words back to him. Or at least, he means to scoff. He finds himself short of breath, and he's not sure what broken thing comes out of his mouth instead, as Martín curves his fingers inside him again. 

Yes. He's ready. He's more ready than he's ever been. Even more ready than on the several occasions when he requested that Martín fuck him. Interesting. How unexpected. 

“Take your hands off me”, Andrés replies, his tone harsh and commanding.

Martín complies, careful not to hurt him, slowly sliding his fingers out. When he has, Andrés turns around and lies on his back. 

The sight of Martín leaves him speechless. Andrés might have been the one getting pleasured, but it’s Martín who looks positively ravished. His eyes are bright, his cheeks a deep pink leaning towards red. His hair, an unsalvageable mess. 

He doesn't seem aware of the state he's in. Martín remains focused on Andrés and him only, and looks him over with that unsettling intensity. He doesn't move, transfixed.

Martín is clearly staring at his lips, as he sometimes does when he’s about to lean in for a kiss. Andrés is about to say something _\- absolutely not! -_ but before he even does, Martín jumps off the bed and runs to their ensuite bathroom. Andrés sinks back into the mattress, laughing softly. He hears splashing sounds as Martín appears to be rinsing his mouth furiously. His eagerness is charming, as always.

Andrés takes this time to grab a pillow and slide it under his hips. He's not doing this without the utmost comfort he deserves. 

When Martín returns, the first thing he does is draping his burning body on top of him again and crashing his lips against his. Andrés hums contentedly. Fresh and minty. Martín is so good to him.

He kisses him back just as passionately, lets Martín's tongue lick between his lips in the same enticing way that it opened him up, just now. It's a lot. Andrés has to stroke himself, once, twice, to relieve some tension in his aching member as he suffers through the madness of this kiss.

“I _had_ to, Andrés…”, Martín breathes against his face when he finally pulls away. “I had to kiss you. I mean- look at you. Look at you… Just look at you-”

He doesn't make sense anymore, just repeats the words and starts trailing kisses down his chest. Andrés groans appreciatively. So good to him, indeed. He's never felt quite so special, quite so adored, as he does through Martín eyes. Through his exalted touches, his devoted kisses.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, Martín drags the head of his cock up his inner thigh. Like a question. Always a question.

Andrés smiles and nuzzles his hair, breathing in his scent. _Yes, mi amor. I'll let you do this._ Martín's disbelief is always a treat. Even though he asked, even though he _insisted_ , he's always in awe at the realization he gets to _have_ Andrés in that way. 

As he should be.

Martín takes his talented mouth off his chest and sits back, looking down at Andrés as he pours more lube on himself, a desperate look on his face. 

So it seems they're definitely doing this. Andrés doesn't know if he's more surprised by his husband or by himself. Regardless, he wants this. He genuinely, shamelessly wants this.

Still, Andrés needs to decide. To give him permission.

“Let's consummate this union, shall we?”

Martín presses another feverish kiss on his lips before focusing elsewhere. He lets out a breathy moan as the head of his cock bumps against Andrés's slicked hole, rubbing circles around his entrance. He never looks away from his face.

And in a slow, precise movement, Martín slides all the way in.

Andrés doesn't know which of them groans the loudest. He winces at the intrusion, not painful in the slightest, but intense. The pressure, this feeling of being full, of being _invaded_ , is confusing.

But it's Martín, so he knows he wants it. They both do.

Andrés wraps his legs around Martín's hips, crossing his ankles behind his back, and holds him in place. Not allowing him to move just yet, as he adjusts to the penetration.

Martín is already a fucking mess. Andrés stares at his face in awe. Sweaty and flushed and feverish. Beautiful. To Andrés, always beautiful.

“Move.”

Martín lets out yet another breathy sound as he lifts his hips, gently sliding his cock out and then back in. He puts care into it, focus. The frown of concentration on his face is almost as satisfying as the repetitive pressure against his prostate as Martín starts thrusting into him. Languorously. For Andrés’s pleasure more than his own.

He knows how Andrés likes it and he gives it to him. He gives him everything he wants, without him needing to even ask.

No matter how annoying he's been about it, Martín has a point. This is not a wedding night he’s going to forget. Not a chance. Not that he would have, either way, because it’s _him_. At last, it's him. How could he ever forget? 

Right now, Andrés couldn't recall a single one of his wedding nights. Nor would he want to. Nothing besides _Martín, Martín, Martín._

But he knows for a fact he will remember every single detail of tonight. He's striving to commit it all to memory. 

Every feature on his face.

The precision of his movements

Those desperate sounds he makes. 

How he makes Andrés _feel_. 

So good, so intense, that he starts rocking his hips to meet Martín's every thrust.

Andrés was never one to beg. And he probably never will. But if Martín asked him right now, perhaps he would. He wouldn't be happy about it, but he could. If Martín asked. The things Andrés would be willing to do, if Martín asked. 

Thankfully, there is no need for that. Why beg, when he can command?

“Faster, Martín.”

He doesn't recognize his own voice. Martín picks up the pace, really fucks him. Not exactly hard, but harder. His movements are controlled and devastating. Andrés groans and grunts and keeps watching him. Martín looks as desperate, as broken as he feels. Noises escape him. Of pleasure, of effort. He loves it, yes, but he can't let go. Not completely. Not when he's fucking Andrés. 

Martín never _uses_ Andrés's body, he pleasures it. And right now, he pleasures him well, expertly, and struggles to ignore his own needs, his own impulses. 

Andrés loves this level of attention, loves the idea of his pleasure being put into Martín’s care. And the feeling of his cock moving inside him is heavenly. But one of Andrés’s favorite things about doing it like this, is watching him unravel and come undone right above him. Careful not to come first, never. Patient, focused on him and only him. Not himself. When Martín fucks Andrés, he looks just as needy, just as wrecked, as he does when Andrés fucks him. 

It's an art. Turning Martín into such a beautiful mess. And Andrés is nothing, if not a skilled artist. A master of his craft. 

He understands why he wanted to do this tonight. He really does. 

And he can tell Martín's orgasm is fast approaching. He's shaking, all sweaty and flushed. Frantic. 

Suddenly, Martín stops his movements and stares at Andrés, eyes wide. Almost distressed. Trying, struggling to make this last _for him_. Andrés tilts his head back and hears himself laugh. But the nearly pained look on Martín’s face reminds him he had other plans for him.

“Alright, I think we’re done”, Andrés announces. 

“What?”, Martín whines, still motionless inside him. “No, I can do this, Andrés, I- just- Give me a minute, I can do this, I swear…”

“I _know_ you can, cariño. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been enjoying this. _Very much._ But I believe you’ve made your point already.”

Martín chuckles, which is somewhat undercut by the way he leans his forehead against Andrés’s, still breathing heavily.

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

Like he doesn’t know. Andrés cups his face and looks into his eyes as he replies.

“It means you want me inside you. You _need_ me inside you, _querido_. More than you need to show off. And I’ll do it, Martín. Look at me. I’m your _husband_. I’ll give you what you need.”

Andrés expected more fight from him, but Martín just stares back at him. There's a hint of madness in his eyes. 

Eventually, he clenches his eyes shut and slips his cock out of Andrés with a pained whine. Excellent. 

“Come with me.”

Andrés promptly gets up from the bed and waits for Martín to do the same, before grabbing his forearm and leading him towards the open window. There’s a little balcony, and Andrés positions both of Martín’s hands on the railing, draping himself across his back. 

“Why here, Andrés?”

A valid question. It’s pitch back outside, and neither of them can see anything from where they stand.

“You’ll see.”

Martín doesn’t question it and arches his back to give him better access. How delicious he looks like that. Inviting. _Greedy_. Martín braces himself against the balcony railing and Andrés watches in fascination as his back muscles dance under his skin. 

No one wants him like Martín does, that’s just a fact. But in turn, Andrés has never wanted anyone like he wants Martín. 

He palms at his ass before dragging a finger across his slicked hole. Martín whines.

“Should I do this again? For good luck.”

“Just fuck me, please, I-”

He slides one finger inside and Martín trembles around it. 

“That’s what I thought.”

He’s still slick and so needy for him. And Andrés is confident that he did a fine job stretching him out, earlier. He’s ready. 

Andrés takes his time, going back to the bed to slick himself up with more lube. Martín looks back at him. But he doesn't move from his spot against the balcony. He stays where Andrés put him.

Slowly, he returns to stand behind him.

He adores Martín like that. Trembling with desire. He knows what’s coming. Both his voice and his body are begging for Andrés’s cock.

And he gives it to him. 

Andrés grabs Martín’s hips in a tight grip and slowly pushes into him. Finally. _Finally,_ he gets to do this. To make Martín his, in this way. _Lawfully wedded._

The feeling is intoxicating. Heat, tightness around him. Martín takes it, groaning and clenching his fists around the railing. When he’s fully inside him, he leans in to bite at Martín’s earlobe and whisper in his ear.

“Look outside.”

Andrés flips the switch next to the window and everything lights up. The impenetrable darkness of just moments ago is replaced by light, by beauty. They can see everything. Not only the mesmerizing gardens, bright and colorful, but the church archway as well. Andrés hears Martín’s breath catching in his throat. 

The altar is still here from this morning. 

Before Martín can say anything, Andrés starts rocking his hips, moving inside him. Fucking him from behind and digging his fingers into his hips. 

The noises Martín makes. 

Andrés leans in to look at the side of his face. Moans keep escaping his parted lips. Red and swollen from being kissed. Martín is struggling to keep his eyes open. But he tries to. Andrés asked, and so he tries.

“I hope you’re seeing this, Martín”, he grunts, and he hears another strangled moan in response. “Because I want you to look at it. I want to fuck you while you look at the place where you took me as _your husband-”_

“Andrés, _fuck...”_

“-the place where _I became yours”,_ he rephrases. 

Andrés has been his for a long time already. But it’s important that Martín knows. That Andrés belongs to him, just as much as the other way around.

Martín just turns his head and crashes his lips against Andrés’s. It’s twisting his neck and must be uncomfortable, but he does. He kisses Andrés, deep and messy, for a very long time, and Andrés can feel his tongue twitching in his mouth at every thrust of his cock.

He eventually lets go of his lips, unable to keep up as Andrés sinks deeper into him, not hard enough, not fast enough. Martín wants more, needs more from him. He likes it rough. And Andrés is not giving it to him, not yet. 

“Andrés, _ah-”_

Andrés makes a shushing sound and Martín almost laughs.

“What, you want me to be quiet now?”

“Quite the opposite, _mi amor._ I want the whole castle to hear you. But you’re saying it wrong.”

It takes Martín a while to articulate an answer.

“Wha- I’m saying- _your name_ wrong?”

“You are.”

Andrés slows down his assaults, allowing Martín to speak more clearly. Allowing him to think.

“What am I calling you tonight?”, Martín eventually manages to say. “Sir? Oh, _master?”_

“Señor Berrote.”

Andrés can almost feel the shiver that runs down Martín's spine. 

_“Dios-”_

Well, that works too.

Martín turns to him with something close to mockery on his face. Which is not a lot considering Andrés is still fucking him. Maybe he would laugh at him right now. If he could. Martín eventually looks away from him.

“Well, can _Andrés Berrote_ fuck me harder, then?”

He doesn’t need to be asked twice. Andrés starts pounding into him, hard and fast, and Martín no longer has any complaints. 

He deserves this. He’s done things to Andrés today. Teased him, aroused him. Angered him. As though begging to be taken. To be _owned_. He wanted this. And Andrés obliges, always. He gets as rough as Martín needs him to be. He reminds him who he belongs to.

Andrés buries his face into his neck. He can see Martín’s swollen cock, completely ignored, bouncing in front of him with each and every thrust. It was inside him, not long ago, on the edge of release. Andrés keeps watching it twitch. It’s almost hypnotic. 

He lays a hand over Martín’s mouth, hoping he’ll get the message. But he can barely align two breaths, let alone understand what Andrés is asking. He needs to be clearer then.

“Lick it, Fonollosa!”, Andrés commands, very pleased with himself.

And Martín does. He whines before slowly flicking his tongue all over Andrés’s palm, sloppily coating it with saliva, and he looks so feverish that he might be getting pleasure from that too. Well, from that, and from Andrés fucking him relentlessly. 

When he’s satisfied with Martín's work, Andrés pulls his hand away from his mouth and wraps his wet fingers around his cock. He starts stroking him in rhythm with his thrusts and Martín throws his head back violently.

“Don’t- that's too fast! I’m gonna come…”

And he does sound awfully close. 

“No, you’re not. You’re going to savor this. You’re going to let me _touch you.”_

He stops the movement of his hips altogether, his own release secondary to Martín's torment. He stays buried deep inside him, motionless, and only focuses on his hand, tight and fast around Martín’s dick.

Andrés wraps an arm around his chest and watches him, feels him, as he unravels under his touch. When Martín snaps his head back again, on the verge of climax, Andrés takes his hand off of him. He waits for a few seconds, listens to Martín’s labored breathing, and resumes his ministrations. 

And he keeps doing it. 

Stroking Martín. Taking his hand away. Every time, right before he reaches his orgasm. Andrés still doesn't move his own hips. 

After a while, he can only grant him one stroke at a time. Head to base, base to head. And he lets his fingers slide off his throbbing cock. 

“Andrés, I- if you want me to beg, just tell me! I'll do it… I'll beg...”

Martín's voice is hoarse and strained. He's blinking back tears, his chest heaving, his knuckles white. Pleasure, _need,_ have brought him to this state. 

“Of course not, _cariño...”_

A shameless lie. They both know it. 

That's not all there is, though. He does want Martín to beg, it's true. But there’s more to it. 

“I’m doing this _for you”,_ Andrés insists. “You know how much better it gets when I make you wait for it.”

Martín is becoming feral. His chest is flushed, his muscles tensing and trembling. He makes a fruitless attempt at rocking his hips back and forth, seeking more, more from the hand around him, more from the cock inside him, something, _anything_. His face is contorted in pleasure and desperation. Bright eyes and trembling lips. The perfect portrait of debauchery. 

“Look at the state of you.”

Andrés presses his palm, flat against the head of his cock. Just that. And Martín groans and squirms, almost as if he were being tortured. An erotic agony. 

“Just ask for it, Martín. You deserve it. After all… _it’s your wedding night.”_

Andrés has the feeling that if it weren’t for his own arm holding him, Martín might fall to the floor. His shaky legs giving out under his weight.

“Please...”

He sounds wrecked. Andrés isn't sure he’s done playing with him yet.

“Please, _who?”_

“Andrés-”

“I don’t think so.”

Martín clenches his eyes shut again, his head hanging forward heavily. He’s going to say it.

“Touch me Andrés… please _Señor Berrote,_ please touch me...”

He's too far gone. 

His cheeks are burning red, and Andrés knows he likes this little game way more than he claims. Well. Maybe his husband deserves a reprieve, after all.

Andrés wraps a tight fist around Martín’s cock again and starts stroking him firmly. The sudden gesture causes a breathless drawn-out moan to escape Martín’s throat, his whole body shaking. Without so much as a warning, Andrés resumes the movements of his hips, feeling Martín’s member throb in his hand. He’s not gentle. He immediately starts pounding into him, deep and fast. Brutal. This little interlude has allowed Andrés to recover quite a bit of energy, and he’s pleased to find himself able to really fuck his husband like he deserves to be fucked. A loving embrace, but a punishing pace. Sweat is coating his forehead and sliding down his back. Andrés keeps going. 

It’s clearly too much for Martín. He squirms and whines in his arms, burning flesh bursting with pleasure. And at last, he comes in Andrés’s hand, clenching deliciously around his cock. Martín throws his head back against Andrés's shoulder and calls out his name in a broken scream. 

It’s one of the most erotic sounds Andrés has ever heard. 

His goal, his reward. He groans at the tight heat around him, and fucks Martín through an impressively long and powerful orgasm. He keeps touching him, caressing him, until Martín is completely done, until he’s given every last drop, and Andrés’s fingers are coated with his come. 

Only then does he take his hand away and grasp his hip instead, now free to chase his own climax. Andrés dives headfirst into his neck again, licking, nibbling, tasting the sweat on his skin. He feels Martín slowly leaning back against his chest. A pliant, boneless body that still has so much to give, that Andrés is allowed to enjoy and use and cherish. Martín lets out weak moans and whimpers, tired and overstimulated. Andrés doesn’t try to rub against his prostate like he sometimes does, doesn’t try to tease him or blur the line between pleasure and pain. He holds him and kisses his neck and listens to the sounds he makes until the heat pooling inside overwhelms him. His own orgasm crashes over him, a tidal wave of pleasure, violent and loud. All consuming. 

His nails dig into Martín’s hips as he comes inside him, and Andrés hears his name again. Not a scream this time. A faint whisper. It's as though the devastating pleasure he feels is coursing through Martín’s body as well. 

The thought brings a smile to his lips. 

Andrés takes his mouth off Martín’s neck, finding the hint of a bruise on his skin as he pulls away. For once, it’s not something Andrés was actively trying to do. Or maybe he was. Marking Martín, _branding him,_ is almost second nature to him. An instinct and a need.

When his head has stopped spinning and his ears don’t ring as loud, Andrés carefully pulls out, circling Martín’s waist with both arms and just standing there behind him, holding him. All sweaty and messy, the damp skin of Martín’s back sticking to his chest. 

A perfect moment, still. 

Andrés lips trace Martín’s temple, and he hears him almost purr, his eyes fluttering shut.

“I know you need to rest, _querido,_ but take a look outside. You have to see it one last time tonight.”

Martín lazily opens his eyes and lets his gaze wander over the gardens, the church. The altar. An elated smile slowly forms on Martín's lips, before he lifts an arm and haphazardly palms at the wall next to him. He does find the switch. As the warm glow of the garden lights fades into darkness once more, Martín turns around in Andrés’s arms. Only their room is basked in light now. Still, there’s an obscurity to it. Here, on the balcony, it feels like they’re hidden away, both outside and inside. Exposed and secret. Martín stares back at him, and the crescent moon paints silver streaks in his hair. 

Nothing else exists around them. 

Andrés should feel tired too. He exerted himself, his body is drenched in sweat, his muscles strained. And he's had a long, eventful day. He should be fucking exhausted.

He isn't. He looks at Martín and he just feels alive. His body and soul have never known peace like that. He's certain Martín feels it too. 

Was it always like this? No it couldn't. Perhaps it was. Perhaps Andrés hasn't looked before, perhaps he didn't see then what he sees now. Watching his husband, tired and bright and happy, bare under the pale moonlight, it breaks something in Andrés. It shifts things. 

Nothing has changed. 

Everything has. 

After a moment in stillness and silence, Martín cups Andrés’s face with both hands and kisses him. Slowly, softly. 

Adoringly. 

Andrés feels it acutely. He feels it all. 

He waits for Martín to pull away before using his arm already around his waist to guide him away from the window. The warm summer breeze is still making chills run down their damp, heated skin. Andrés holds him closer, fully supports his body when he notices Martín’s legs are wobbling as they cross the short distance to the bed. He’s happy to confirm that he truly wrecked him. In the most gracious way. 

Andrés makes him lie down and kisses his forehead.

“Don't go anywhere, husband of mine.”

Martín lets out a weak sigh, sinking into the mattress. Andrés laughs softly as he steps into the bathroom, washing his hands and cleaning himself up. He returns to the bed with warm towels and a bottle of wine.

Martín hums contentedly as Andrés gently wipes the sweat and lube and come off his skin. It takes a little while to get everything.

When he opens his eyes again, Andrés helps him sit up and slides a wine glass in his hand. 

“Such luxury”, Martín comments with a smile. “What is it, my wedding day or something?”

Andrés chuckles and sits up next to him against the headboard, his own glass in hand. His other hand is tracing patterns along Martín’s thigh.

After a while in a comfortable silence, just sipping their wine and basking in each other, Martín’s tired voice pipes up again.

“Is that what it's going to be like from now on? Marriage?”

“Is it any different from how it was before?”, Andrés asks, genuinely curious. 

“No- Yes?”, Martín hesitates. He puts his glass away as he thinks about it. “I'm not sure. It's not different, not really. But it _feels_ different, it feels-”

“Better?”

“-real.”

Andrés smiles, setting his own glass down on the nightstand so he can hold both of Martín’s hands as he answers.

“You'll find marriage won't bring that much of a difference in our everyday life. But it can - it _will_ \- affect how we perceive it. For the better.”

Martín rests his head against his shoulder and closes his eyes again.

“Well, I trust you on that. You're the expert, right?”

He doesn’t say it in an accusatory tone. There is no bite to it. Only mischief.

“You know what else you can trust me on?”, Andrés replies, amused.

“Hm?”

“Don't fall asleep yet, _mi amor._ You and I are just getting started.”

Martín laughs against his skin.

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

Martín straightens up before moving to straddle Andrés’s lap. He starts lazily lapping at his neck as Andrés sits back against the headboard, still basking in the afterglow. He enjoys Martín’s weight on his thighs, grounding him to the moment. It’s not sexual, not anymore. And a bit too soon after their orgasm for either of them to get hard again just yet. Andrés wraps his arms around Martín’s body and simply experiences the moment. 

“Maybe I'll let you fuck me again, if you behave”, Andrés offers.

“No you won’t. You don’t want that from me.”

“I want what _you_ want.”

And he means it. But his husband knows him better than that. 

And Martín doesn’t want that either, not really. He ends up asking Andrés to fuck him again instead, and Andrés informs him that if he wants it, it’s his turn to do all the work. To which Martín happily obliges. This husband is so good to him. So insatiable, so devoted. So full of desire and love.

The best choice Andrés ever made, that much is sure. 

And, as it’s often the case, Martín was right after all. Andrés has never had a wedding night like this one. Not even close. And he’s happy to know that he never will. This is the last one. He looks at Martín and he knows it is. The last one, the best one. In a way, the only one.

**Author's Note:**

> [Life is a circus and I am the clown](https://bi-and-dangerous.tumblr.com/post/625641804501483521/a-short-story-set-in-the-something-stolen)  
> ~~~
> 
> UPDATE: there is now a [Russian translation of “After the altar”](https://ficbook.net/readfic/10101863) – credit to [purrfect_angel](https://twitter.com/angel_purrfect), who also [translated ”Something stolen, something blue”](https://ficbook.net/readfic/9768806) ♡  
> ~~~
> 
>  **@[ _shotgun-cake_](https://shotgun-cake.tumblr.com)** on Tumblr  
>  **@[ _Shotgun_Cake_](https://twitter.com/Shotgun_Cake?s=09)** on Twitter


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